Sunday, August 21, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Everyone needs a little closure, every now and then. A little retribution to ease the gaping, wounded, pesky bitch called sadness aka lost aka cry baby aka hatred.
Of course, as the principle of nature dictates, for every act there is bound to be a reaction, and therefore a never ending cycle of glorious hate and bloodlust, ad infinitum.
Then, of course, you can always savor the insults, the hatred, the pulsating lust for vengeance. Slow burn for better times when no one expects it, and when the pleasure will double and triple by every slash and hack.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
“I remember”, he said with a faint smile, “how one chemically induced trip, back in the 60s, had once taken me up a rainbow, which I proceeded to lick. I remember it tasted a little salty and sugary. Almost like blood. It smelled like blood too, that was until I realized, of course, it was the blood running down the broken needle.”
“Those were the day”, he said in between the looming darkness, “When I was walking mighty tall and proud, on the wheels of fire”
Sunday, August 14, 2016
If truth actually originates as facts steeped in fiction, which then begets more fictionalized truth intermingled with plain facts, what part of it is a plain fucked up myth?
Oh well, got to love the sweet beheading girl, regardless. Let the misanthropy gets younger and younger still.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
So they went to the mundane realm. Cast down from high on to crawl on all ten toes. They took to liking the greeneries of earth. The dreamy allure of smoky hallucinogens and the heady poisons of life and death that only mortals could ever understand….
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Saturday, August 6, 2016
How can one sleep with so much joy abound?
A truck load of death, a festival of knives, dancing lose on the streets, and a bountiful of joy and joy and joy and joy abound, all around.
I am a flux, a permanent wave, soaring out of bounds
Saturday, June 25, 2016
What would you do with that knife that hasn’t been done a million times before unto me?
Thrust it as fierce as you might want, break the flesh, the bone, brittle…it shall never fill that void one calls life.
None is more black than the shattered mirror, the rippling well, the underbelly of life, where the dead shall suffer death no more.
Come and tear at the flesh, to the gutters, where the dead shall suffer death no more.